


worth a thousand words

by Darkfromday



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, During Canon, Gen, If you want something done..., Kendra Dumbledore Appreciation, Missing Scene, Mother-Son Relationship, spiritual discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: Kendra Dumbledore had never liked magical portraits much. Later in life, her oldest son can't help but concur.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore & Kendra Dumbledore
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47
Collections: Platonic Teacher-Student Relationships





	worth a thousand words

**Author's Note:**

> kendra dumbledore: exists quietly in the background  
> me, looking between her and albus: I have a lot of questions

_1996_

"Sir? I have another question, before I go."

Albus Dumbledore looks up curiously from the roll of parchment he's filling for bulk quill orders at Scrivenshaft's—and sure enough, Harry Potter is lingering by the front door in his office, mere moments after being dismissed for the night. He gives the young man a once-over from over his spectacles—and, once he sees that Harry doesn't look distressed by whatever is on his mind, relaxes minutely.

Albus had been concerned when they began viewing Tom Riddle's early life in the Pensieve that consistent exposure to the life and times of such a dogged foe might disturb Harry's psyche... but so far, other than a few compassionate or indignant questions about a detail here or there, he has borne the weight of his mysterious 'lessons' well.

"Certainly, Harry," he says after the briefest pause, breaking their locked gazes to gesture kindly at the seat the young man had just vacated. "Please sit. What's tickling at your mind so close to bedtime?"

Harry's lips quirk up at the imagery, just as intended. In three quick strides, he's sinking back into his chair and staring down at his hands, as if trying to figure out how to explain what's troubling him. "It's not really... important," he begins; his eyes dart to the walls behind and around his headmaster, then away. "Just something I've wondered about for a bit."

"If you have wondered about something, and I can answer, I would be remiss as a professor not to pass the knowledge along." He grants his favorite pupil a small but encouraging smile.

Harry smiles back in full now—but still hesitates to share. _No matter._ Sometimes he does better when his curiosity is coaxed out of him. Leading questions will work well enough.

"Something about the portraits?" he prompts, when he at last deduces what has caught Harry's eye. "Did you have a question for a previous headmaster or headmistress?"

" _Not_ that we'll necessarily answer," says one portrait caustically from above Albus' left shoulder. Phineas Nigellus fixes Harry with a typical look of disdain as he continues: "Even this late at night, some of us have better things to do than trade secrets with teenage boys."

Dilys Derwent, Armando Dippet and several more portraits prove they have been listening in longer than Albus would like when they start hissing at their truculent companion.

"Disrespect!"

"Discourtesy!"

"The boy was just _looking_ at us, for heaven's sake—"

"I for one wanted to know what he would ask—"

"Oh _honestly_ , Phineas, just because the boy's not the Headmaster of Hogwarts doesn't mean you have to talk to him like you've got your wand up your—"

" _Actually_ , Professor, er..." Harry cuts in loudly, while flushing red behind the ears, "it's not so much a question _for_ the portraits as it is one _about_ them."

"Oh?" Hiding another smile, Albus lifts a hand to shush the ones who haven't already quieted down to openly listen in. It is not often that any student stops to ask about the nature of the portraits, and even less likely after they have completed their first year at Hogwarts. Even the most curious Muggle-born or Muggle-raised children lose any lingering inquisitiveness about portraits, ghosts, and other echoes of the departed once their minds have been stuffed with courses and clubs and three square meals a day.

 _Of course_ , he thinks with a burst of affection, recalling the young man's interactions with Hagrid and Dobby and Remus, _Harry isn't precisely like any other student_.

"Yeah, I was just thinking... the portraits in here are exact copies of the people they were before, right? Not like ghosts, more like... the most enduring form of that person while they were alive, painted into a few frames."

"Hmmm... yes..." The headmaster turns and steeples his fingers together, glancing at the many faces and styles that adorn the back half of the circular office: robes in currant red or savoy blue, adornments ranging from malachite sashes to goldenrod lace. "You are on the right track indeed—the headmaster's office hosts an enduring form of those Heads who came before them, so that they might continue to serve the school long after their deaths, but it would not be correct to call them 'exact' copies. Nor are they an 'echo' in the way that Cedric Diggory was, when he emerged from Voldemort's wand two years past, fully aware of the events which followed his passing."

Harry frowns—likely as much at the reminder of his former classmate as at the intense thought exercise. "So then... if they're not copies, and they're not echoes...?"

"It would be most accurate to call them _imprints_. The most well-known characteristics and mannerisms of the living headmaster or headmistress—or any other person who consents to be magically preserved, whether they are socially prominent or not—are sealed into the frame by the finest artists we wizards have, though Hogwarts typically does her own painting when the current Head passes on. For example, Everard's lifelong habit of being honest and trustworthy is present in both his frame here at the school and in his frame at the Ministry of Magic—"

"—and he never lets us forget _he_ has more than one portrait," one short witch mutters from the far right, making Everard's ears match Harry's.

"—and Dilys' nurturing disposition long ago secured her a second frame at St. Mungo's. Meanwhile, poor Professor Dippet had the misfortune of having his portrait done by an outside artist that was extremely fixated on the state of his hair—"

"—and wizards go bald early _all the time!_ _"_ Armando Dippet wheezes miserably. "Euphemia could have emphasized _any_ of my other features, young man, she could have even given me the flowing mane I had back in 1737, but _oh no_ —"

Albus clears his throat meaningfully, hushing everyone again. "As you can see," he says to Harry, his eyes shining with mirth, "even the best-made imprints do not often capture the whole spirit of the person, and certainly not always to the satisfaction of the imprint (or the loved ones) left behind."

"Right," Harry says. He twists his fingers together tightly in his lap. "But it's still a pretty accurate _version_ of them, isn't it, sir? One you could expect to look and act and talk exactly like the person did when they were alive?"

"...To an extent, yes," the headmaster replies, more slowly. There is a shiver of tension in the air which was not present a moment before, and it is clearest in Harry's newly-closed body language and the words he isn't saying. From behind him, Fawkes stirs and emits a sound like a mournful bell.

Albus rises decisively from his seat behind the desk, and sweeps smoothly around it to sit in one of the chairs on the other side. This puts him next to Harry, who startles at the move but doesn't protest—he is likely processing the rarity of not having a barrier of authority between himself and his professor. While he processes, Albus catches his eye and gentles his voice even more than before.

"What are you truly asking me, Harry?"

Harry opens his mouth—hesitates—shakes his unruly mop of hair, before another heart-wrenching note from Fawkes allows him to blurt something closer to what's really on his mind.

"Why doesn't everyone have portraits painted of themselves, then? If they can preserve a part of themselves in frame for—for their students, or their friends—or their family..."

He trails off.

 _Ah,_ Albus thinks sadly, wincing inwardly. _I should have guessed he would wonder about this._

Such a simple question, really, yet all the more complicated because of how personal portraits could be to different people. Families like the Blacks or Malfoys might take pride in lovingly rendering each and every 'acceptable' member in oil and magic forevermore—other families like the Abbotts or Weasleys might prefer to focus their attentions on those people who were still living, and find other ways to pass on the traditions of those they loved and lost.

 _And the Potters_...

He swallows a sigh and opens his mouth too, to tell Harry a comforting platitude or a profound observation: that Lily and James had died too soon, with too much going on, to concern themselves overmuch with leaving behind imprints for posterity they hadn't known might outlive them so quickly; that James Potter, a lifelong rebel, often scoffed at the trials and traditions that occasionally emerged for those considered 'pure-blood' and categorized 'prattling portraits' as more of the same; that the true echoes of Harry's parents waiting in the realm Beyond knew exactly how much he ached for them, and even a Hogwarts portrait would offer him no such certainty.

None of these words emerge. Instead, he is swept up in an old memory between one blink and the next.

_1891_

_"Mother, could I ask...?"_

_He cuts himself short, but Kendra Dumbledore looks up easily from her sewing—she has heard him, and doesn't seem to mind the interruption._

_"Certainly, Albus. Come, sit here—help me patch up your brother's trousers, and we can talk."_

_Albus approaches with confidence he does not entirely feel. It has been six months since Ariana was attacked by those Muggle boys—six months since she turned inward mentally, and became unrecognizable to her parents and brothers—six months since his father Percival went mad with rage and grief, and got himself sent to Azkaban after giving those selfsame boys a taste of their own medicine. Kendra has dedicated nearly her every waking moment to caring for his sister since then, soothing her 'fits', and it shows in the enduring dark circles under her eyes and the dryness of her once-smooth, caramel-colored hands._

_Which means it has been six months since Albus has seen his father at all, or had his mother's undivided attention._

_"Careful," Kendra says as she hands him a spare needle and thread. But her expression betrays nothing but confidence in her eldest son's needlework, since she_ did _instruct him herself._

_Albus sections a bit of his mind off solely for the work under his hand: he lets that part mindlessly poke and pull the needle and thread through his brother's long-suffering clothing, while the lion's share of his thoughts flutter endlessly around the question that has been troubling him since he'd spied Aunt Honoria's last letter._

_Neither of them speaks at first. The quiet rustle of fabric is the only noise in the sitting room, as they pretend that they are not waiting for a broken-off cry or crash from upstairs to disturb the tentative peace; it has always happened before, after all. But soon the silence stretches long enough to outlive the tension and unease, and Kendra even shows off one of her small, special smiles._

_They might be all right, for the evening._

_"What's tickling at your brain tonight?" his mother finally asks._

_Albus wants to smile at the old turn of phrase (one of her many quirky favorites), but his lips, his mind, are weighed down by the weight of uncertainty and unhappiness this topic generally gives him. But as a frequent visitor to his family's off-limits library, he intimately understands the concept of 'nothing ventured, nothing gained'._

_"I was wondering... about Father."_

_Kendra's needle halts._

_"I know he isn't ever coming home," Albus hastily clarifies. The words taste sour in his throat. "I know he'll never be released. But I was wondering why that had to be the end of it—why we can't simply use other means to see him again."_

_"How do you know any of this?" she demands—but shortly afterward, as he cringes and fumbles for an excuse, she lets out a low sigh. "Never mind. I knew not to leave Honoria's monologue on that table overlong."_

_Privately, he'd decided that his aunt's words must have disturbed his mother more than she was willing to admit, for her to leave any information about Percival Dumbledore or the scandal with the Muggles where he or Aberforth could find it. His own voracious appetite for reading made it inevitable that he would skim anything Kendra allowed in the house—especially when she had taken to hurling any new copy of the newspaper they received into the fireplace after her husband's arrest._

_"What are you asking me, Albus? If you mean to take a trip to Azkaban—"_

_"No!" Albus interrupts. "No, I... did not mean visiting. Or Dark Magic!" he adds quickly, as his mother frowns at him; she knows what kinds of books she has caught him with before. "I meant—we have photographs, do we not? And Aunt Honoria has old portrait frames that aren't already occupied by Father's parents and grandparents. I could do some work around the village, save up the gold to hire an artist, and we could have Father preserved in a portrait..."_

_"Albus."_

_"It wouldn't be quite the same, but at least he would be part of the house, and we could speak to him. Perhaps having him back would help Ariana settle in some more—"_

_" **Albus** ," Kendra says more forcefully. His mouth closes with a snap._

_She pauses over the trousers in her lap, with the same look on her face that he has inherited from her—as though she is arranging her thoughts in the proper order for distribution to the wider world. One hand darts out to push a loose curl of hair back into her standard bun, and Albus squirms; the longer she hesitates, the worse the conversation to follow tends to be._

_Finally she begins. "Albus, my dear, you have always been extraordinarily reasonable and mature for your age. In the past few months, I admit I have relied on that reason and maturity more than any parent should for their child. But I will be failing you if I do not remind you that you_ are _indeed my child, and not the other way around."_

_"Mother..."_

_"You are ten years old, Albus. It is not your responsibility to support this family; it is mine. Your father trusted me with this duty when we made the choice to keep silent about what happened to your sister, even when the Ministry came to take him away—and it is not my intention to fail him."_

_Flushing, he ducks his head, letting his hair cover his equally-red cheeks. He hadn't meant to imply that his mother was struggling with her new burden; she is the type of woman who is equal to any challenge that comes before her, and he has admired her for it his whole life. At the same time, though, he has never been a slow child: he can see the way exhaustion and grief have leached some color from Kendra's hair and skin, and he feels helpless to do anything about it besides what he has already suggested._

_And... if he can at least help his mother, then perhaps it will leave him less time to consider how much he misses his father._

_"Your idea has merit," Kendra suddenly admits out of the blue. She doesn't give him much time to process the compliment, however—just as he jerks back up, she completes her thought. "...but it is not one I will follow up on."_

_"Why not?" Albus has never been the type of child to whinge, but at the moment he feels awfully close._

_The temptation fades away entirely when he chances a look up and sees a hard glint in his mother's piercing hazel eyes._

_"Because, Albus," she says softly, "we do not suffer pale shades at our hearth."_

_The words strike him dumb for the first time in many years._

_"I understand your confusion. Percival's family put great stock in moving portraits for each departed Dumbledore—as you already are aware, knowing your aunt. For five generations they created and commissioned paintings of their ancestors, and carried them from house to house as they married and extended the line. They believed there was no issue in borrowing from the spirits of the living to create these caricatures of oil and magic.... and your father believed as they did, until we married._ _Have you never noticed that all the paintings in our home have been of living people? You have likely never wondered why, but it is as good a time as any for you to learn._

_"Souls are precious, my son. They are wonderful, individual pieces of the greater puzzle of life. A soul fed by the love of friends and family can accomplish feats beyond the magic of witches; a soul surrendered or savaged can never be fully restored to what it was before. And when it is time for souls to pass on beyond the barrier which separates the living and the dead, they must let go of their connections to this place to be admitted to the next. That means that we must also let go of any lingering pieces of them."_

_Albus swallows hard. His mind races through ideas, trying to understand what she might mean—hoping it isn't what he thinks._

_"The magic of moving portraits clearly captures life," Kendra continues gravely. "A meager, repeating slice of life, but living all the same. It flies in the face of everything I learned as a girl, everything my own family instilled in me years before a young Ilvermorny professor offered me entry into a new world. It still baffles me today. I remain convinced that so long as a walking, talking, learning embodiment of someone who has passed on resides within a frame, then a fragment of the true person it attempts to depict remains adrift, with their soul unable to find the peace it has earned in death. And that is why I would never ask someone to split off a fragment of my Percival._

_"For what would be the result? A pale shade of my husband, Albus, and your father. A weak imitation of the man Percival Dumbledore truly is. Perhaps the portrait might be able to calm Ariana's wild magic, but he could never be relied upon to watch her alone. And what if the sight of him so long after his disappearance agitates her further? What if she begins asking where he really is? She will not like the answer. And what of your brother? Aberforth took your father's arrest no better than you—having him half-returned in such a way would be no help to him."_

_She is right, of course. Aberforth has always had a volatile temper—he was fussy from the crib, really—and he has never been dull. He also took Percival's loss very poorly indeed. Introducing a form of their father into the home that cannot touch him, embrace him, nor truly advise him beyond a handful of predetermined phrases... would not end well._

_And yet._

_"Mother," Albus pleads, completely putting down his sewing job, "You miss him. I... **I** miss him. We all do... and it doesn't need to be this way."_

_"It is irrevocable." Kendra does not budge. "Unless you would prefer to have him home, his innocence known, in exchange for never seeing your sister again?"_

_"No! No, I didn't mean..."_

_"Albus. You have a good heart, and I know your wish comes from a genuine place within. But you are also old enough to see and shape the world as it is, not the way you might wish it to be. Your father will pass on in that horrid prison without ever again seeing the light of day. Even if Honoria were to create a portrait of him now, it would be limited by what knowledge Percival was publicly allowed to know—for how could we let any artist we hired in on Ariana's secret? He would not know why his youngest child could never leave the house, why he himself was a convicted criminal, why his family is treated worse than dragon dung."_

_Frustrated, Albus looks down at his lap again, clenching his tiny fists. Every point his mother has made is true, and each query hurts worse than the one before. He never knew that the lack of family portraits in their home was down to anything besides a general lack of interest in them—which he had been sure would melt away in the face of their current need. But he doesn't want a cheap imitation of his father either; that wouldn't ease the ache in his chest at all. Is his father's absence truly so dire as to justify hanging a half-formed replacement in some well-trafficked hall?_

_(He knows the answer: it is not.)_

_Kendra pushes aside Aberforth's other pair of trousers and moves closer, to run her free hand over his. Her comfort manages to be soothing and constricting at the same time._

_"I cannot leave the house overlong, but if this will help you, Albus,_ you _may. I will arrange for you to see your father, if you decide you would like to after all. I will honor him while he remains alive, and think of him each night and what he has sacrificed for us. But I will not disrespect him by looking for him within a frame... do you understand?"_

_The door of possibility closes; the burden of his father's absence settles firmly back on his shoulders. It is more painful than it was before. But all Albus can do is nod dutifully._

_"Yes, I understand."_

_1996_

"Professor?"

A blink, and Albus is back in the present: his mother's settee is gone, his mother is gone, Ariana is gone. It is the autumn of Harry's sixth year, and Harry himself perches close by on the edge of his chair, waiting for an explanation on why Lily and James Potter did not leave behind shades of themselves on canvas for him to hold on to.

The portraits, at least, are blessedly silent behind them.

"Forgive me," he says softly, brushing those century-old memories and hurts to the back of his mind where they belong. "Your question reminded me of a similar one I had once for my own mother."

" _Your_ mother, sir?" Harry's voice is hushed, as if he can sense they are treading on a sensitive topic. He also looks startled again—which makes perfect sense, as Albus knows he has never breathed a word about any family besides his brother in the boy's presence.

"Yes. She was a fine woman—strong-willed, quick-witted. Quite a bit sterner than her children turned out to be, too." He winks at his student, enjoying the way Harry obviously has to suppress another smile at the reminder of the headmaster's many allowances for him.

But Harry will not let himself be distracted for long.

"...What did your mother say? About why everyone doesn't just make sure there's a portrait of themselves?"

Albus looks at Harry for a long moment, sees the vulnerability masked in his eyes, and wonders if he looked the same to Kendra Dumbledore one hundred and five years ago when he asked about how to bring his father home in some fashion. (And he knows the answer: he did, he most certainly did.)

"She told me that magical portraits capture a minuscule part of their subjects' life, which is true," he begins. "A bit of the person's unique soul comes alive in the work. And as I told you, she clarified that their uncanny imitation of the people they were is just that: an imitation. They are shades limited by the knowledge poured into them."

"And what's wrong with that? I, I mean—it's one thing if the person dies after having a full life, maybe having a portrait or not doesn't matter as much—but what if they get killed? What happens when they leave people they loved behind without meaning to? We're just supposed to— _I'm_ just supposed to turn down a chance to talk to a picture of them, tell them about myself, and actually have them talk _back_?"

"No," Albus refutes, but kindly. He makes a point of reaching out sooner than his mother had and taking Harry's closest hand, offering a connection. Harry's cheeks are flushed once more and his expression is desperate for a different source of connection, but he does not deny the contact.

"There are plenty of people who possess portraits of people they missed, Harry, or those they never knew. For some people, it is a way to honor those who came before; for others, it is a foolproof link to the past, if restricted in scope. I am sure there are many artists out in our world who would be more than pleased to spell one of the photos Hagrid gifted you with Lily and James' voices, or even to paint new portraits of them for you to keep for all your life. But not all wizards are enamored of the idea of lifelike portraits, and some are wary with good reason.

"Harry, to answer your initial question, I find I must ask: would you truly be content with pale imitations of the people your parents truly were?"

Harry rears back a little, just as Albus did as a boy decades ago. "W-What...?"

"Let me clarify. Your parents had you at twenty years old, and died shortly after turning twenty-one. Sadly, that means they did not have much time to make memories with you, or to truly settle in to their new lives as parents... and any artistic interpretation of them would be the very same. Such is the drawback of magical pictures, which is why some do not put much stock in them at all. Many of the people who knew Lily and James well as young adults are also no longer with us. At best, you might find yourself in touch with a father and mother forever marveling about how much you've grown, how much you resemble James, what House you were sorted into, and whether you joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You deserve far better than a reunion tarnished by rudimentary catchphrases."

Albus pauses to squeeze Harry's hand; the poor boy has lost all the color that was just in his face, consumed with considering the possibilities his professor has posited. It is painful to see the hope lingering behind his eyes slowly dwindle away to nothing. And it takes a long time for Harry to speak up again.

"That isn't... no, I don't want that. I would never want them to be— _less_."

"I know."

"So—so that's it, then? They're gone, and I'm still here, and I can't even reach them through paint and magic?"

"They are not 'there' for you to reach. It is similar to the images of your parents you found within the Mirror of Erised: enticing but intangible. And it is just the same as the portrait of Sirius' mother which hangs even now in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place: while those who knew her likely considered her a faithful enough adaptation, you likely gathered that there is not much depth to her likeness. The true Walburga Black is in a place neither of us will see just yet—and there, I am quite sure, your parents await you as well. And there is another thing you have forgotten, Harry..."

"Sir?"

"I have told you before that your parents live on in you, have I not? And that they awaken most strongly in you when you most need them? I stand by this assertion, particularly after the events of two years ago. When you faced down the very man who had cut down your parents, your magic and his were able together to temporarily call back echoes of them from the place souls go when they die. These echoes borne of _Priori Incantatem_ were, and are, far more real versions of the people James and Lily where while they lived than any portrait painted during or after their lives would be."

Harry swallows hard. Hoarsely he asks, "What made those—those _echoes_ so different than a portrait? How did they seem to know what I was going through in that moment and how to help me? Why is _Priori Incantatem_ the only spell that can cause that effect?"

Albus shakes his head mournfully. "Even I do not know the answers to your questions. All I can say for certain is that there is no known way to recall the souls of the departed to inhabit pictures of themselves, and that even those souls called back by clashing brother wands will not linger long."

Harry nods jerkily, goes quiet once more, and stays that way for some time. There are shadows behind his eyes. _Of course, he has witnessed the ephemeral nature of the spell firsthand. And his parents could only speak with him long enough to give him a chance to escape Voldemort's clutches._

Just behind them, Fawkes leaps off his perch near the door. Albus is gratified to see him approach, and something in him eases as he watches Harry reach out and stroke the phoenix's back after he lands on his knee. He hates having to destroy the last bit of wonder Harry holds about magic—having to set rules and boundaries where none should be—but at least the boy has not started shouting, or (worse) become withdrawn. At least some part of him understands that Life and Death are not boundaries one can or should easily hop across.

At least he understands that there are some conversations that can wait, and there is no need to hasten his march to the grave.

A meaningful throb from his injured hand makes Albus bite down on a wince, in the hopes that Harry will not notice. Harry does anyway, of course, and closes his hand a little more firmly around Albus' uninjured left hand, but he doesn't ask how Albus gained the injury and he doesn't ask if Albus is all right. He knows it is because he has dissuaded Harry from asking, for fear that the boy might put pieces together sooner than he must, but...

_Oh, Harry. Sooner than either of us would like, I will be forced to leave you as well with nothing better than a dried imprint on canvas—one that may never hold your hand as you learn the limitations of love and magic._

And when that day comes, he can only hope that Harry remembers not to seek him where he cannot be found.

"Harry, I can assure you that you were first and foremost on your parents' minds from the moment you were born. Even with the pressures of the war back then, giving you a bright future was all they strived for. I am as sorry as you are that Lily and James are not here with you... but I do not want you to go chasing after their phantoms at the cost of your own life."

"Yes, sir," his pupil whispers. "I understand. I think you've told me something like that before."

"So I have. And I will remind you as many times as it takes, until I am sure that your head and your heart are here."

He lets go of Harry's hand and gestures around them, indicating not only his quiet office but the equally-quiet world beyond the castle walls—all indicative of the world of life, unlimited and unpredictable. The world Harry's parents wished for him to grow up to see, the place Albus himself strives to keep their son at all costs. When Fawkes leaps off Harry's lap and soars back over to his perch with one brief note of farewell, Albus takes it as a sign that his resolve is as strong as ever. He gets to his feet after briefly patting Harry's shoulder.

"And now, it is well past time for both of us to find our beds. I must apologize in advance, for I daresay you will be a little more sluggish in Minerva's class tomorrow morning."

Harry hums low in his throat in agreement, rising too. He still looks a little unsettled by the turn the evening's conversation took, but Albus holds out hope that a good night's rest will put things into perspective later.

"All right, sir, I'll try to push through it. And..."

"Yes?"

There's a brief pause; then Harry says, "Thank you. For, er, explaining, and understanding."

Another bloom of affection warms Albus' heart at the words—but in the interest of keeping the feeling to himself, not burdening anyone else with it, he waves the boy on more casually than he might otherwise. "You are very welcome. Good night, Harry."

"Good night, sir."

A few seconds later Harry has crossed the distance from their chairs to the office door, and disappeared around the other side. The delicate silver instrument which tracks his general location when he is out of bounds spins and puffs gently as soon as he's out of view, and Albus knows without giving it a second glance that it will continue to do so until Harry has made it safely back to Gryffindor Tower.

"I am frankly _shocked_ at your nerve, Headmaster," Phineas Nigellus says imperiously, after a little punctuating sniff to break the silence. Several of the other portraits sigh or groan loudly, but the Slytherin Head ignores them. "Older and wiser Heads than you have described we portraits with the respect and reverence we richly deserve. And here you are, telling one of the most _disrespectful_ students I have ever had the misfortune to meet that we are little more than caricatures on canvas!"

Albus chuckles. "I beg your pardon, Phineas—but that is exactly what you are," he replies easily. "Although you have the most acerbic tongue of any painting I have ever conversed with, and you have doubtless vexed Harry beyond even my imagining, your likeness does not hold a candle to the downright vicious Headmaster Black I studied under so many years ago."

"Hmmph!" Phineas exclaims, and in a swish of poison-green turns his back on his eventual successor to sulk. Armando Dippet catches Albus' eye and mouths _thank you_.

Albus himself resists the urge to shrug. Needling his old Headmaster is merely a welcome diversion from tougher tasks, and not something he does to soothe the other Heads, preferable though their counsel and conversation may be. No—if he reminds the imprints of their place, it is easier to remind himself. Easier to imagine Kendra Dumbledore giving him one of her rare, proud smiles from wherever she, Percival and Ariana wait for him and Aberforth. 

The spinning, puffing silver sphere stops and settles, and he beams. _Harry is safe._ A wave of his cursed hand douses the lights in the office, and Fawkes soars over to his shoulder as he bids the other headmasters and headmistresses a half-hearted 'good night' and heads for his bedchamber.

Tonight's discussion with Harry, and his mother's old warning about holding on to the past, has reminded him that there are far more important things than speaking with those who are long gone from this world. He will sleep now—but in the morning, he will turn his attention toward speaking more with the living, while he is still among them.

_Perhaps one last visit to my wayward brother is in order._

And afterward?

_...Ah, yes._

Afterward, there will be more work to be done, and perhaps he will have the chance to do it all with a lighter heart.

 _That bulk order for quills will not finish itself_.

**Author's Note:**

> (This is what happens when I ask things like "why didn't Percival and Kendra have portraits their children could use for advice and solace" at three in the morning.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7vDnBjqQBI) was repeating in my head the entire time I wrote the flashback—maybe you'll enjoy it as much as I did.


End file.
